


The Furred Avenger

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Class Issues, Cuddling, Gen, Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, Kittens, M/M, New York City, Non-sexual cudding, PTSD, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not London, during the Blitz. </p><p>This was not Warsaw, after Hitler's armies and the Allied bombs had turned centuries of history to rubble and screaming children. </p><p>This was New York City. </p><p>It was the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twelve.<br/>He was, against all odds, alive.<br/>Or;<br/>how Steve Rogers rescues a kitten, serves his penance, and falls in love with Tony Stark along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pookaseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pookaseraph/gifts).



_lub dup_

_lub dup_

_lub dup_

The morning air stung at his lungs, his breath coming in short bursts of fog. It was not yet daylight, and in the dusky dawn of a Manhattan morning, the city did not seem as alien as it once had. The mist and shadows hid the sheen of the newer buildings, and as he ran, he could hear the familiar sounds of people stirring, curses and mutters as shopkeepers and workers prepared for their day. 

He quickened his pace, his breathing slow and steady, as he left the shiny upper-middle class morality of the buildings surrounding Avengers Tower, and found himself submerged in the sights and smells of the working class.

This was his city. These were his people. Throughout time, it seems, some things do not change-- there has always been, will always be, and immigrant and poor population that rises early to prepare the city for its owners. All that's changed in the time he was--away-- is the smell of the food in the air, the language of the inhabitants: no longer the mix of Irish and Eastern European accents, the shouts and cries mixing with the sounds of the previous nights revellers attending early morning Mass so they could return home and collapse with a clear conscience. In its place are snatches of languages Steve does not understand-- though that is not much different to the old days-- and women and men in dress he is not familiar with. Women in headscarves and men in turbans, as though they had stepped off the battered pages of the geography primer he had devoured as a child, memorising the tales of far-off lands and strange gods. The psychologists at SHIELD tasked with reintroducing him to the modern world had been very insistent about them, about the way he should treat-- what had they called them? 'Visible minorities'-- as though the instant he stepped out on his own he would recoil in horror, or, worse, act violently. 

They had forgotten, Steve assumed, that he had been one of them himself. Well, not like that- Steve didn't pretend to understand the circumstances facing people like that, especially today, when it is so much easier for people to act on their hate- but he does remember waht it is to be an outsider. Steve had been poor, and sick, and Catholic, and the child of two Irish immigrants at a time when businesses were free to post on their doors that 'No Irish need apply'. He remembered the neighbourhood wars, the fights between Protestant and Catholic, between Italian and Irish, between Polish and Russian-- even if he was that sort of man, Steve was far too intimately acquainted with being spat on to ever do it himself. 

He ran faster, eyes closing tight against the sweat and the sights and the ghosts of yesteryear that remained, even after all this time- he had been awake for months, now, and still he sometimes needed to remind himself, when faced with the scarred and pockmarks cityscape that was slowly recovering from the Chitauri attack, that this was not 1942. This was not London, during the Blitz. This was not Warsaw, after Hitler's armies and the Allied bombs had turned centuries of history to rubble and screaming children. 

This was New York City. It was the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twelve. He was 24 years old, give or take seventy years. 

He was, against all odds, alive. 

 

He heard, in the distance, bells ring, and he sighed and quickened his pace. 

His name was Steve Rogers, and he was about to be late for Mass. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The differences in the Church had bothered him most of all. Steve may be unsure of this new word, but he is rarely wrongfooted, or hadn't been until he stood in Church, the Priest facing his parishioners- and he wasn't sure he would ever get used to that- ready to recite the Ave Maria, and was instead greeted in English. Time was, Steve was an altar boy. Time was, Steve could recite the whole mass in Latin. He had been rattled, had left the service, and returned home to ask Jarvis everything he could about the changes to the Mother Church.

Now, he knew the ropes. He recited the Apostle's Creed without difficulty, rose for Communion and bowed his head to the Host before taking it. Soon, Mass was over, and with the final blessing and prayer, Steve rose and headed for the door. 

It wasn't the same. It wasn't, and why should it be? Since that first day, Steve had been determined not to let it bother him, but today-- he hadn't slept, his nights plagued with memories and contrasts and regrets that _should not matter_ but somehow did.  
Some of the things that plagued his dreams were not memories but wishes, and those scared him all the more. Whatever else may have changed in the last few decades, he doubted the Bible was included. 

As Steve filed out the door, he felt a grasp on his shoulder. 

"Steven?"

Steve turned, forcing a smile has he saw who it was. "Yes, Mrs McDonnely?"

The older woman smiled back, her eyes crinkling at the edges. "I just wanted to give you this," she said quietly, pressing a piece of bright yellow paper into his hand. 

Steve glanced at it. 

**COMING HOME THROUGH CHRIST** , the paper proclaimed, **WEDNESDAY AFTERNOONS, 3:30 - 5:30. CARERS AND SUPPORTERS WELCOME.**

"What is it?" Steve asked. Mrs McDonnely smiled. 

"It's a veteran's group, dear. This new priest was a chaplain overseas, you know- he's quite keen on it."

Steve felt his hand tighten around the paper, tearing it slightly. "Thanks, Mrs McDonnely," he said politely. "But I'm fine. I appreciate the thought, though." 

She nods, but looks concerned. "Where are you off to this morning, then?"

"Work." Steve says shortly. 

"At the construction site?"  
Steve nods.  
"I heard on the news that Captain America sometimes stops by to help out. Have you ever met him?"

Steve shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"I suppose he doesn't, not _really_ , probably just something the papers put out to make them look good. Typical, if you ask me, these superheroes, setting themselves up as our saviours, but who's left to clean it up, hmm?"

After a moment, it become clear that she is waiting for a response. 

"I don't know, ma'am," Steve says neutrally. 

"Well, it's us, isn't it? Good, working people. They make the messes, and then we fix them. I can't tell you how many we've had through our counselling program since the attacks began--"

"--I'm sorry, Mrs McDonnely," Steve says urgently. "But I really must go."

As soon as he turned the corner, he began to run.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The summer sun was blisteringly hot, and sweat ran down Steve's back as he shifted rubble and cracked cement. It had been two months since the Chitauri attack, and it seemed they were no closer than ever to repairing the broken city. 

 

Grunting, Steve heaved a particularly large piece of foundation to the side, relishing the burn of lactic acid pooling around his thighs. 

He bends down to do it again when he heard it. Small and plaintive, the cry drove him into action. He pulled at the rubble, first with the shovel and then with his hands, the cries growing louder with every haul. Finally, he reached the source. A small scrap of grey fur no bigger than his fist, with wide, piteous blue eyes. It was far too thin, its bones sticking out at odd angles, and one of its ears was swollen and heavy with infected tissue. 

It was beautiful. Steve lifted it carefully, trying to brush the dust off its face as he did so. Suppressing a curse as it sunk needle-sharp claws into his calloused flesh, he pressed it to his chest. 

It mewled sadly. 

"Shh," he murmured, pressing his lips against the back of its neck. "It's alright now, you're safe. I'm gonna take care of you."


	2. Chapter 2

As he jogged back to Avengers Tower that night, he focused on the steady, if rapid, heartbeat of the being snuggled inside his shirt. 

Clutching it as tightly as he dared-- it was not an unknown experience for him to break remote controls and glasses through the sheer strength of his hands, and surely a living, breathing, organism is far more delicate than that-- his world shrank to its soft, rough, purrs and its needle-like claws that clutched as tightly at him as he did at it. Absent-mindedly rubbing a thumb over the harsh juts of it's knobbly shoulder blades, Steve felt his own breath begin to regulate, the defiant hyper-vigilance for once focused on something that even his weary mind recognised as no threat. 

The return to the Tower was a merciful blur, and Steve found himself arriving in the communal kitchen without any real consciousness of the journey. The kitten, who had been resting rather peacefully, began to shake in the air-conditioned cool. 

"Shh," Steve hushed, "You're cold, are you? Would you like a blanket, do you think?"  
The kitten meowed pitifully, and Steve pet it soothingly. "Let's get some food into you first, yeah?"

Five minutes later, Steve was comfortably ensconced on the couch, a soft terrycloth towel wrapped tightly around the small animal. Slowly and carefully, he dipped a corner of a washcloth in a dish of milk and dangled it in front of it. The cat glanced at it suspiciously, then back at Steve. 

"Well, go on, then," Steve said irritably. "Cats do still drink milk, don't they? You're not all on, I dunno, nutrient pellets or something?"

The cat shot him a look that, had it existed in a human and not two pounds of injured and hungry kitten, would have been called baleful. A small pink tongue shot out and tentatively licked at the cloth, before opening its small jaws as wide as they could and getting down to the business of properly suckling. 

They made their way through nearly half a cup of milk that way, before its eyelids began to close, a soft grumbling emerging from deep within its chest. 

Steve cautiously let his head drop, resting his chin in the soft mats of fur. It was surprisingly peaceful, and despite himself, Steve felt his eyes drifting shut into a restless sleep. 

They shot open again at a soft scuffling, followed by a light 'Damn!' as the guilty party realised they had woken Steve. 

"Dr Banner," Steve said easily, smiling as he willed the painful adrenaline to leave his knotted muscles. 

"Captain! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you- it's just that I seem to have misplaced a book, and I thought maybe- er. It doesn't matter. I'll just-- get out of your way, then."

"No, sit," Steve said, before he could stop himself. "You could put on the television if you like." 

The doctor smiled, and held up the worn paperback in his hand. "No thanks, Captain. I found it."

"Steve," Steve said impulsively. 

"What?"

"Call me Steve. Please." He added belatedly. 

"Bruce."

The two men stared at each other for a moment. 

"Well, now that the introductions are over..." Bruce said with a small chuckle. 

Steve smiled. "C'mon. Sit. A man could use some company, a night like this."

"Well then," Bruce said, "I don't mind if I do," and eased himself down onto the sofa. The movement jostled the kitten, who gave out a hiss of displeasure. 

Bruce jerked up, surprised. "Oh! Oh, hello, little thing. Where did you come from, then?"

Steve flushed guiltily. "The building site."

There was no need to specify. For Steve, there was only one building site. 

"Ah," Bruce said, accepting it at face value. Once you've dealt with aliens and sentient robots, Captain America bringing a kitten home is really not a shock. "He's got a bit of an infection in that ear, there, want me to take a look at it?"

Steve looked at the spot that Bruce was pointing at, which was inflamed and swollen. "Please," he said gratefully. 

"I'll meet you in the lab, then," he said. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve stepped into the lab cautiously, the cool, slightly acrid smell of science hitting his nostrils and triggering a response in his reptilian brain to _leave_ , _leave as soon as possible_. 

"You all right?" Bruce asked, his eyebrows quirked in worry. 

"Yeah," Steve said, breathing deeply. "I just- I don't like labs much, is all."

Bruce smiled. "Me neither."

He met his eyes with something like understanding. "If you'll just let me take a look at him, we can both be out of here."

Wordlessly, Steve passed over the small (apparently male) cat, which Bruce pet gently before he began examining it in earnest. 

He worked in silence for a while, swabbing and cleaning cuts and draining pus. 

"Bruce," Steve said awkwardly, "Can I ask you a question?"

Bruce looked up from his work. "Um, sure, but I can't promise I know the answer."

"Where'd everybody go?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Immediately, Steve flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"-no," Bruce interrupts, weirdly gentle, "I just don't know what you mean."

Steve scratches at his head. "Well, it's a bit like this- it used to be, you couldn't walk down the street without tripping over a polack- sorry, I keep forgetting we're not supposed to use that word any more- or an Irishman, someone like- I'm not making any sense. What I mean is, things change, yeah, I get that, and I know the politics- or the bits that SHIELD felt I was _prepared_ to know-" here his voice is scathing- "-and the fact that they think I don't know from propaganda is funny, really, but we'l come to that some other time-- but I didn't get anything about the _people_. And I want to know what happened to them."

Bruce stared at him, a slight smile paying about the edges of his chapped lips. "This really matters to you, doesn't it?" He asks after a moment. 

"I'm in the history books. I'm a kid from Brooklyn who fought in the War and didn't come home, just like a bunch of other guys. I'm in the history books. Kids know what happened to me. Nobody, it seems, can tell me what happened to them. I tried looking on the computer, but-"

"- _you_ looked on the computer?"

Steve glared at him. "I'm not as dumb as I look, Dr Banner."

Bruce smiled. "Sorry. You're right, that was rude of me. I guess what I need is- what do you wanna know? Do you want demographics, or--"

 _What woud have happened?_ Steve wanted to say _If I had come home? Discharged on a GI pension, maybe, or just stuck through till the war was out and gotten that dance? What if Bucky and I--_

but his mind shies away from that thought, a decades old defence mechanism sliding easily into place. Even here, in this brave new world, those thoughts were dangerous. 

"I want to know about the people," Steve said, after a moment, "Like I said, I know the big stuff- what I wanna know is, how did it change? My friends back home, what happened? I don't--" Steve faltered. "I don't know if that sort of thing would be in a book somewhere, but I thought maybe-- never mind."

Bruce tilted his chin questioningly. "I'll think about it, okay? See if I can't come up with something."

He picked up the kitten and placed it in Steve's arms. "He should be good for now, nothing seems to be broken. If the swelling keeps up we might have to get him to a proper vet, but otherwise--"

Steve smiled his appreciation. "Thank you, Doctor."

 

Later that night, as Steve sat in the silence of his darkened quarters and stroked the cat, there was a knock on the door. 

"Come in--" Steve began to say, before the door slid open. "Why do you bother to knock if you don't wait for an answer?"

"Social convention," Tony said-- and of course it was Tony, there is no world in which it is _not_ \-- "I'm told it can be infinitely valuable. Anyway, no time for small talk, Banner wanted me to give you this, it's a list of memoirs, he says you can probably find them at the library- you know you _could_ just download them onto your StarkPhone, honestly, I don't understand why I bother supplying you people with cutting edge tech if you don't bother to-"

"Tony," Steve said, cutting off the words mid-flow. "Tell Doctor Banner thank you"

"Yeah." Tony said awakwardly. "Yeah, of course, I'll just- I'll pass it on, shall I? I'll just be-"

Steve smiled. "Goodnight, Tony."

"Yeah," Tony said again. "goodnight, Steve."

He went to walk out the door, then paused. "Does he have a name?"

"Who?"

"The cat."  
"Oh," Steve said, glancing down at the cat, as though surprised he was still there "Yeah. Uh, I, I've been calling him Bucky." 

Tony's face twisted into a brief parody of a smile. "That's a good name." 

"Yeah," Steve said softly. "You're right, it is."


End file.
